The Precipice
by TheVerbalThing ComesAndGoes
Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." Better, he wants to say. House/Cuddy
1. chasm

The Precipice

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." _Better,_ he wants to say. House/Cuddy

Setting: Season 3

Disclaimer: lyrics belong to Kings of Leon, my second-favorite band.

**A/N: **not quite sure about this one or where it's going, but I needed to write it. Let me know if I should continue?

Enjoy.

_

* * *

_

_That taste all I ever needed  
All I ever wanted _

_too drunk to surrender._

His hands are cold.

House taps his fingers against the wood of the balcony and revels in the fact that he can hardly feel a thing. (Actually, he thinks he passed that point about an hour ago.) He's not sure if it's because of the cold or the booze but he thinks he's becoming dependent on the numbness.

This should be a good enough reason for him to put the drink down, take a step back, and go home, forget about this night and everything involved.

He doesn't. Instead, he takes another sip.

"Hiding out?" Her voice surprises him, but true to form, he pretends that it doesn't, tries to pretend that she has no effect on him (although, lately, it's getting harder and harder to pull that one off).

"I don't _hide_," he corrects her, "I brood. Much sexier."

She smirks, keeps her eyes on his as she moves toward him. "Self-pity is not a good look on you."

"But I wear it so well," he insists mockingly. Cuddy leans against the balcony, her forearms flat, hands resting on top of one another. She's very careful about keeping a certain amount of distance between them, he notices, though the satisfaction of knowledge is not as great as he thought it would be.

He appraises her in the dim moonlight: simple black dress (he remembers unzipping that one, remembers how much his hands shook until they finally met her skin), teardrop pearl earrings, a necklace that looks impossibly familiar, stilettos that give him the wonderful illusion that her legs go on forever (she let him do his own exploring, once, and he wasn't disappointed to find that they are, in fact, softer than they look).

"You look good," he says, but the phrasing feels awkward, somehow the words aren't enough. He surprises himself (and her) with the admission, but decides to let it remain where it is, between the two of them, untouched by his usual cynicism.

A whole truth, for once.

"Thank you." She slides the drink from between his hands (this time, he doesn't fight her) and takes a sip. Her lipstick smudges the spot where his lips have left an imprint of their own, and he stares at it for a while, the simple act holding too much meaning, some metaphor that he can't pull apart.

(And he wishes he could kiss her now, directly, without the aid of inanimate objects, the obstacle of another man waiting for her to return.)

"You shaved," she points out. Her hand reaches up and, for a moment, he thinks she's going to touch him but at the last second she changes paths, and rests her hand beside his instead. He covers up his disappointment by taking back his drink.

"It's an important night. I should support my colleagues in any way that I can." He repeats her words from a few days ago and she smirks. "Or so someone told me once."

"You didn't have to come to this, you know."

"And miss the show, and the open opportunity for mocking?" He scoffs. "It's what I live for."

After a momentary silence, he hears her murmur, "It's cold." She crosses her arms at her waist and leans into him, even though, he assures himself, she doesn't mean to. It's not deliberate, not an action that indicates want. Just a reflex.

"Go back inside, then."

"I came out here to—"

"I'm fine," he cuts her off coldly. "Just because you bring some loser to a ball I'm supposed to fall to pieces? You're good, but not _that _good."

"To _check_," she continues, glaring at him, "to make sure you weren't trying to escape. I know how you can get all maudlin at holiday parties."

"What am I going to do? Throw myself off a ledge?"

"If you're desperate."

"You underestimate me. I'm insulted."

"I'm sure you'll get over it." She runs her thumb across her ring finger and he can't resist the comment that makes the leap to his tongue.

"Nice ring."

"Thank you," she is quick and swift with her response, as if hoping to cut off whatever else he has planned to say. Not a chance.

"I'm assuming you said..."

"It's just a gift," she insists. He wonders if she really believes that.

"He couldn't have gone bigger, then? _That_ thing looks like a pity gift. A crackerjack prize would have been more impressive," he snarks.

"He could have. I didn't want him to."

"Please. What kind of woman _doesn't_?"

"Well, I guess you don't know me as well as you claim to."

_Better,_ he wants to say, but she seems to be satisfied with believing that particular lie; he guesses it comforts her, and he lets her have it (for a moment).

"Right." In between the silence that stretches around them, time passes and his hand finds its way to the small of her back. And he feels her shiver underneath his palm, just like he knew she would.

It's a little unnerving, knowing someone as well as he knows her; he knows it's within his grasp and power to use that to his advantage but, for some odd reason at this moment, he'd rather not. (He thinks he'd rather just have her stay with him.)

"Don't." Her voice is soft, but not quite pleading and there is very little force behind the request. She wants to mean it, but she can't, not really. He isn't sure yet how he feels about that.

"What?"

"You know what. _Don't_." His hand seems to have a mind of its own, his fingers making a light trail along the bumps of her spine. In spite of her protests, she's leaning into him, not away from him, her hands gripping his forearms.

"House…"

"What? You said you were cold."

"Yes, and look how you've conveniently used that to your advantage."

He narrows his eyes, focusing his gaze on her while she tries to avoid his. "Why did you _really_ come out here?"

"I already told you that—"

"No, you gave me an excuse, not the reason."

"What's the difference?"

"A very thin line."

She shakes her head, puts her hand out in what he's sure was, initially, an attempt to stop him but only comes to rest on the lapels of his jacket. "House, we can't-"

He knows the speech she's about to make, has familiarized himself with her meaning and intonation, and could probably recite it word for word from memory if asked. But he's not at all interested in hearing it again. Not tonight.

He's not quite sure how it's possible, but he thinks her lips are softer than he remembers. And he wants to convince himself that she has never fit so perfectly against him, and that she probably never will again. Too good to be true.

Nothing changes, he realizes.

She shakes her head again as she pulls back from him, lips brushing against his as she says, "I should go back inside…"

"Right. The Boyfriend's waiting. Wouldn't want him getting suspicious."

"Don't do that," she orders, forcefully this time, and lets go of him. He backs down, takes a step back, removing himself from her personal space and trying to ignore how cold he feels again.

"House…"

"What?" he snaps, harsher than he intended. He doesn't recognize the change of light that occurred in her eyes until it's gone.

"Forget it," she murmurs. She steps off the balcony, leaving him alone with his drink.

Nothing changes.


	2. bluff

The Precipice

Setting: season 3

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." _Better,_ he wants to say. House/Cuddy

_

* * *

She shakes  
like the morning railway_

_Checking me out  
with someone on her shoulder._

She is well aware of the fact that it probably (definitely) isn't healthy—or helpful— for her to think of him as often as she does.

Thoughts of House invade her sleep, interrupt the peace and calm of her dreams by reminding her that she can never hide from what she really wants, no matter how hard she tries to. It shouldn't mean so much to her, one stupid reckless night nearly three months ago, not when she has all that she ever could with the man lying next to her. Or, at least, she has the possibility.

Vincent might not necessarily be who she wants but he is offering to do for her everything that House can't—or won't—do.

Some nights, she finds herself lying on her back, eyes screwed shut, afraid that if she turns over she will only see what she wants to see and not what is actually there— and she knows that will only result in her being disappointed.

And she's had enough of that.

The knock on the door comes late the next night; she is so sure she knows who it is and why he's here that Cuddy takes her time, trudging to the door as if she's being forced to walk the plank.

Her mind rushes to come up with an excuse as to why she won't be able to let him in, because for the first time in a long while her bed is empty; Vincent being out of town on business. She wonders if House times these things.

And then, she shakes her head. _Of course he does_.

She takes a deep breath before opening the door, just wide enough for her to lean her head against it but not enough for him to be able to step through the space easily. "What are you doing here?" she asks him, not really expecting an answer. "It's the middle of the night."

"So?"

"_So,_" she echoes mockingly,_ "_I'm tired. You need to leave."

"Why—is he here?"

"_No_, but…" _That's exactly why you shouldn't be here_, she thinks, but she'd never be able to admit that, not out loud, and definitely not to him.

"Then what's the problem?" He smirks knowingly, and she has to fight the burgeoning and almost overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. "What, you don't trust yourself to be alone with me?"

Besides, if she really didn't want him here, she never would have answered the door once she looked through the peephole and saw that it was him standing on her doorstep. And she wouldn't have just let him push past her to stand in her foyer. Cuddy closes the door behind him with a sigh, feigning extreme annoyance in an attempt to cover up her nervousness.

He's leaning over her, looming, technically, taking advantage of his height and forcing her to look up at him. She likes to let him think he can be intimidating but really, she can see right through him. (But, she isn't quite sure that she will ever tell him that.)

"House, just tell me why you're—"

"Leave him."

"What?" she scoffs, disbelievingly. "You aren't seriously standing there, and asking me to—"

"I'm not _asking_ you to do anything. Leave him."

"You don't get to come here and make demands. That's not how this works."

"Really? How does 'this' work, then?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it. _This_ isn't anything. It's nothing!"

"You're awfully worked up over 'nothing'."

She shakes her head, furious and unnerved by the fact that he's succeeding in getting under her skin, turns on her heel and heads to her kitchen to make a pot of tea. She doesn't ask if he wants anything, partly out of spite, and partly because she is still clinging to the hopeless delusion that he won't be staying long.

House spots the ring she took off a mere three hours after the hospital party the other night, and that has been sitting innocently on her coffee table ever since, untouched but not unnoticed. He follows her into the kitchen, choosing to stand less than two feet behind her; she can feel the breath of his exhale on the back of her neck. "You know, you're only leading him on by keeping that thing."

"Who says I'm leading him on?" she retorts, challengingly, turning around to face him. She leans against the counter top, feigning indifference to his close proximity (and the distracting combination of the scent of his leather jacket and aftershave). He shoots her a look.

"…He told me that he's willing to wait for my decision," she admits hesitantly.

"For how long?"

"As long as I need."

"He's full of shit."

"Why? Because he wants to actually consider what _I_ want and is willing to wait for me to decide?"

"He shouldn't have to."

"Oh, now all of a sudden you're the advocate for this relationship? No less than five minutes ago you were telling me—"

"If you really wanted to be with him, _seriously_, you would already know by now."

He's right, though Cuddy is more than willing to add this fact to the list of things she's never going to tell him. "_And_…you wouldn't have slept with me three months ago."

She rolls her eyes and exhales deeply through her nose. "You _would_ bring that up."

"You don't think it's relevant?"

"_I_ think of it more as a lapse in judgment. I'd had a little bit too much to drink that night and I'd been feeling vulnerable because Vincent and I were fighting—"

House lets out a noise somewhere in between a scoff and a grunt. "You were _not _'vulnerable'. Nowhere near it. Especially not when you were telling me how to—"

She slams the kettle down onto the stove, and then turns off the burner. "Shut up."

"How serious can you possibly be about a guy that you keep cheating on?"

"I do not 'keep cheating' on—"

"Kissing someone who isn't your boyfriend? You do that often?"

"You are such an ass."

"He can't be what you want."

"_He's_ not an ass."

"So, what, he wins by default?"

"_'Wins'_? Nobody 'wins', House, this isn't dodge-ball."

"Does Victor know you're settling for him?"

"I'm not settling," Cuddy insists. "_Vincent_ is…what I need."

"Thought you said the two couldn't be mutually exclusive."

"I changed my mind," she offers up primly.

"No, you _settled_."

"You're only here to see if I _would_ break up with him to be with you. You don't actually want to have a relationship with me."

The fact that it is a statement and not a question is deliberate, and planned. Cuddy can't afford to risk getting her hopes up when it comes to Gregory House and commitment.

Somehow, still, without truly thinking beforehand about the consequences, she asks him, "… Do you?"

"Quit deflecting onto me. This isn't about what I want."

"Yes, it is. It _is _partly about you, more than you care to admit, especially when you come to my house in the middle of the night to play these little games."

"What if I told you I was done with the games?"

House takes a step forward, his hands resting on either side of her. She keeps her arms crossed over her stomach, refusing to give in to the innate desire to rest her rest her hands against his chest, to reach out and touch the skin that she can get a glimpse of through the opening at the collar of his shirt.

"…I probably wouldn't believe you," she informs him, jutting out her chin challengingly. (She vainly hopes that he won't notice the husky quality her voice has taken on, or that her breathing is hitched, quicker.) She swallows thickly when he leans closer, the heat from his body making her palms moist and her throat dry.

He smirks, his eyes boring into hers, searching for _some_thing though she's not sure what, and after nearly two minutes of a silent stare down, Cuddy begins to feel uneasy, suspicious. And that feeling only increases when he responds.

"Good."


	3. interstice

The Precipice

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." _Better_, he wants to say. House/Cuddy

Setting: Season 3

**A/N:** i always have trouble getting past chapter 2 for some reason... this took longer than i wanted it to. the next one _should_ be up sooner (but i can't make any promises). and thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far. enjoy! :)

_

* * *

The lamp  
flickers in the bedroom._

_She must feel as awkward...whore-house Arizona_

She hasn't been sleeping well.

It's been a while since she's had a moment to herself, the available opportunity to properly bring everything into focus and set her mind straight.

Unfortunately, she _can't_ seem to be able to do much of that lately. She can't think straight. She's had very little time to herself; the hospital is in the middle of a financial crisis (which of course has turned into a having-to-fire-employees crisis) and she has a nagging, foreboding feeling that at the end of the week when Vincent is back from his business trip, her love life will probably be battered beyond recognition. She has House on her mind and the lingering scent of Vincent's cologne on her sheets, and she _just can't think_.

Jogging usually helps with that. Key word being _'usually'_.

Cuddy stumbles, but rights herself before any real damage is done, and takes a breath as she toes aside the stick she nearly broke her neck over. But then, she stops, realization hitting her as she bends down to retrieve the offending object that is definitely _not _a stick.

She scoffs disbelievingly, her narrowed eyes landing on the pair of Nike sneakers a mere foot from herself and trailing up the length of wrinkled jeans, some obscure rock T-shirt, up to the scruffy gray beard (that on anyone else she would probably say needed to be shaved) to the slight quirk of his lips and the look of amusement in his eyes.

"Did you lose something?" she asks sarcastically, though she makes no move to hand over his cane.

"Your form is off; you need to regulate your breathing better."

"I _know_ how to regulate my breathing, thanks," she snaps.

"My bad, you seemed a little rusty. Thought I could give you some tips." House arches an eyebrow when he says the last word, and Cuddy tries not to think about what he could possibly be insinuating with that comment.

"What are you doing here?" She started jogging here, coincidentally after she discovered it was House's new avoid-clinic-duty-and-all-general-work-responsibilities hiding spot, and found that it, somehow ironically enough, served as a better atmosphere than her own neighborhood.

"I got here about five minutes _before_ you did. You can unclench. I'm not following you."

"I didn't think you were. I was curious, not suspicious. I know _you_ don't think there's a difference—"

"If anyone should be suspicious, it should be me. This is _my _jogging park."

"So you invent parks now, too?" she asks, smirking.

"In my spare time, in between smiting and damning those who dare to doubt me.

She ignores his comment, and instead takes the unopened water bottle sitting next to him, all the while wondering about the line he fed her about not following her. He lies about nearly everything, there's little to no reason why he wouldn't lie about this.

"So, are you going to give me my cane back?"

"Are _you_ going to tell me why you're here?"

"Already did."

"You really surprised that I don't believe you?" she asks with a pointed look.

He shrugs and tries a different approach. "Maybe it's fate."

"You don't believe in fate," Cuddy can't help but scoff.

"You're right, I don't." He shrugs again. "Seemed like a good day to go jogging. Or, to _watch_ people go jogging," he corrects himself.

"And the water?"

"I was thirsty. You seemed thirstier. You're welcome, by the way."

She narrows her eyes in slight suspicion, though concedes to a hesitant smile. "Thank you."

"Cookie?"

She stares pointedly at the opened package of Oreo's in his hand. "What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing. Have one; they're _delish_."

"I just ran for three miles. I don't think so."

"Live a little. Even if Vinny thinks you're fat, doesn't mean the rest of the male population shares his opinion."

"You've never even met him, and you're trying to use him to insult me?"

"Not insult you, persuade you. Come on over to the dark side, Cuddy." He holds the small bag of cookies out towards her and she thinks she recognizes the expression on his face as something genuine. She grabs one and takes a small bite, all the while keeping her eyes on him and her mind focused on him, in her kitchen, invading her space and talking about games.

"What is this?"

"Chocolatey goodness filled with icing whose ingredients I'm not entirely sure of."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

He still doesn't answer her original question, and she decides that it's ultimately best to save that conversation for a later time. She takes a seat next to him on top of the wooden table, her bare shoulder pressed into his. She doesn't admit how good the sugary substance tastes on her tongue, or how much more relaxed she feels sitting here, next to him.

(She wishes it didn't mean anything.)

* * *

"What are you doing?"

His hand immediately freezes above the paperwork that he was filling out for his latest patient and Wilson frowns, surprised by the interruption and confused by the abrupt nature of the question. And the gleam of determination in Cuddy's eyes definitely has him feeling a little troubled. (Though, if he's honest with himself, he doesn't know if he's more frightened or more turned on.) He isn't sure what the hell he's supposed to do right now. "What, do you mean like right now?"

"Are you seeing someone? Did you meet a new friend that you don't want House to know about? Join a book club?"

"No. When would I have time to _join_ a—?"

"House is up to something. It's almost like he's been..." Cuddy trails off, shaking her head. "I mean, he can _not _honestly be so affected by a kiss that barely even lasted a minute so I can only assume that he's screwing with _me_ because his feelings are hurt because _you're_ neglecting him."

"House doesn't get his feelings hurt," he dismisses before he realizes what she just said. "Wait a minute, you two kissed?"

"House didn't tell you?"

"No."

"He didn't say _anything_?"

"_No,_" he insists for the second time.

"Did he… say anything to you about what happened three months ago?"

"No…. Why? What happened three months ago?"

"I—Nothing. It was nothing."

"Obviously," Wilson retorts sarcastically. "I thought you were seeing someone?"

"I was— I _am_," she corrects quickly, rolling her eyes.

"But you two... kissed? Is that _all _that happened?"

"You know what? It's nothing. Never mind. I'll handle it."

"Handle _what_?"

"Just forget I ever said anything. Okay?"

"...oh-kay," Wilson agrees slowly, though he's not entirely certain what he's agreeing to, exactly.

Waiting in line at the cafeteria lunch line seems to take forever. He pays for two sandwiches, two bags of extra salty potato chips, and two sodas, his mind churning all the while with about a dozen and a half different questions. Wilson still hasn't decided which one he's going to ask first by the time he makes his way to House's office.

House is sitting at his desk, tossing his red and gray ball into the air, his feet propped up carelessly on top of various piles of paperwork and junk mail. His eyes narrow immediately upon seeing Wilson entering his office bearing gifts, a look of eager anticipation in his eyes. A look House has honestly been hoping to avoid dealing with for as long as possible.

Wilson takes the seat on the other side of his desk, and House takes an unnecessarily sloppy bite of his sandwich while keeping one eye on the level of his fidgeting. After nearly five and a half minutes of silence- and after House has eaten a bag of chips and more than half of his sandwich-Wilson finally breaks the lid he's been trying to keep on his gossiping addiction and ungracefully blurts out, "What the hell happened between you and Cuddy three months ago?"

Subtle.

House tilts his head to the side, taking a moment to think of a response or, more accurately, a deflection. "I thought that we should finally tell you that you were adopted," he deflects. "She didn't think you were emotionally mature enough to handle it. I'm starting to think that she was right."

"House, seriously, just tell me what's going on. Did you two—?"

"You already know _what's_ going on. You just want the dirty details of _how _it happened. And probably the _when _and _where__, _since you've been sleeping on my couch for the past six months and she's been sporadically shacking up with what's-his-face for the past three."

"So you did sleep together, then. Was there alcohol involved? A double lobotomy, perhaps?"

"Such a shame all that wit is wasted on an oncologist," House replies dryly.

Wilson rolls his eyes, ignoring the dig and choosing to focus on getting information out of his friend. "So, are you two _together_, or—"

"Okay, see, _this _is _exactly_ why I didn't tell you."

"Seriously? Are we role playing? Since when do you care what I think about your relationships?"

"We're not in a relationship. And I still don't care what you think."

"Yes you do."

"No," House insists, taking the open bag of chips from Wilson's hand, "I _don't_."

"If you didn't, you wouldn't be continuing this conversation and you would have already been halfway to the elevator by now."

"Have you forgotten that I'm down to only _one_ good leg? Can't exactly perfect any Speedy Gonzalez impersonations."

"So, is she going to keep seeing that guy, the architect?"

House shrugs, conveniently choosing to stare into the now empty bag of potato chips. "As far as I know."

"...You going to do something about that?"

* * *

She opens her door, expecting the delivery man from China Palace. She tries not to let her irritation show at finding House, once again, on her porch, holding a paper bag in one hand and balancing two cans of soda on top of each other in the other hand.

"You're becoming predictable."

"Bite your tongue," he retorts. "You going to let me in? "

She narrows her eyes.

"If I go, the food goes, too."

She rolls her eyes, taking the bag of food from him to keep him from losing his balance. (Only because she'd rather he not fall and break his face on _her _property, not because she cares anything about what happens to him. Not at all.)

"What is it with Jews and Chinese food?" he comments idly.

"You actually paid for my food?" she asks in disbelief.

"Sun Yi gave me a discount; we bonded over our mutual love of your cleavage. And don't worry. You can always pay me back in sexual favors."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that. Why don't you drop your pants so I can get started."

"Seriously?"

"What do you think?"

"I think...I need to choose my words very carefully so that this turns out right."

"It's not going to happen."

"I'm still waiting for you to tell me why, exactly, you came here, paid for my food, with no guarantee that I would even let you in this time."

Predictably, House ignores the answer she's fishing for. "You're not wearing the ring. Is he still out of town or did you finally realize you're wasting your time?"

"None of your business," she answers shortly.

"Actually—"

"You're _seriously_ going to try to defend whatever sick reasoning you've come up with to justify butting into my relationship?"

She can hear the echo of the silent question _"What relationship?" _but Cuddy chooses to ignore it. She hasn't spoken to Vincent much since he left, no ground breaking conversations about the bizarre state of limbo their relationship seems to be stuck in, and they certainly haven't talked about the fact that his 'proposal' was met with a level of apprehensiveness and skepticism that made her nauseous (and probably would have made House proud). There are certain aspects of her life, of _her, _that she's kept from him that she couldn't realistically imagine the two of them entering a marriage.

Of course, one of the biggest aspects of her life Vincent has yet to discover happens to be in her living room, sitting on her couch and arranging paper plates on her coffee table.

"So is this your plan? Seduce me over disposable cutlery and inexpensive takeout?"

"I didn't have to try so hard the first time. Didn't even have to buy you dinner, if I remember correctly."

"Different time, different place, and a completely different person."

"You're not as different as you think you are."

She doesn't dispute that one because, in spite of everything, there is a strong possibility that he may be right.

They spend about an hour eating on her couch, sharing Kung Pao chicken and lo mein noodles, and the time passes with surprisingly little to no arguments. (Or, no particularly volatile arguments, anyway.)

When Cuddy feels herself getting a little too comfortable with the situation, she stands abruptly, making a pointed show of looking at the clock which reads 10:30. "It's late."

"Is that your subtle way of asking me to come to bed?"

"House."

"Right. I get it." He nods and stands, making his way towards the door. She feels her suspicion make a return at how unexpectedly easy that was.

"You're not going to try to manipulate me into letting you stay longer?"

He turns to face her and arches an eyebrow. "Do you want me to?"

"...I should probably call Vincent," she evades, looking away from him. "His flight gets in tomorrow."

"Nice deflection."

"Learned from the best."

They stand awkwardly in her hallway for a moment and she knows, without even looking, that House is staring at her, analyzing her. "...so are you going to go do that now?"

"I should," she repeats firmly, but remains rooted to the spot, less than a foot away from him.

"Yeah, you probably should."

She doesn't.


	4. fissure

The Precipice

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." _Better_, he wants to say. House/Cuddy

Setting: Season 3

**A/N: **yay, chapter 4 is finally finished! guess this one's a bit more humorous than the others, not planned it just came out that way. enjoy and review, all. :]**  
**

* * *

_And I go_  
_ Stand up to a giant_

He never intended to simply watch her sleep.

It is far too sentimental for his tastes, and far too hopeful an action for his own good, and so House tries to avoid doing such things. But he wakes up in the middle of the night, pain in his leg and Cuddy's head on his chest, and so without intending to, he gets caught up in the moment, watching the moonlight cast shadows across her face and bare skin.

He isn't delusional though; he's well aware of how this will all go once the sun comes up.

He knows that she will wake up in the morning, maybe not regretting the night before, but certainly not rejoicing in what they did.

Still, somehow, House manages to drift off back to sleep.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he becomes aware of the distinct and distant sound of a phone ringing. He slowly comes awake to two realizations: the warmth that was tucked next to him is gone - and he actually stayed the night this time.

(He is reminded, then, of the last time this happened, and the certainty with which she uttered: _"This can_not_ happen again," _which almost made him believe her.)

Cuddy is strong willed, usually, a woman of heavily-built conviction. House still isn't sure how he feels about the fact that he is the one that seems to alter that aspect of her personality. He doesn't hate it, obviously, but he can't bring himself to fully love it, either. And any feelings of ambivalence and ambiguity have always made him uncomfortable.

The ringing stops. Her voice, soft and husky drifts into his hearing from not too far away. She's tucked herself into the bathroom and House is starting to think this has all the makings of an affair the more the details are added. "Hey...what time does your flight get in? ...no, no I can...of course I don't mind. No, it's not a problem. ...You, too."

"Morning," he greets her first. He watches her carefully as she moves out the bathroom towards the bed. She's wearing a robe, cinched tightly at the waist, though it doesn't do much to deter his gaze away from her chest.

"Morning," she echoes huskily, brushing aside the curls out of her face. "You're... still here."

"Seems that way." The _"Why?" _is left unsaid between them, though it still manages to echo throughout the room somehow. "I take it you didn't tell him I was here?"

"No. Why would I?"

"I don't know. I figured the two of you had such an _open_ and _honest_ relationship." The mocking undertone to this statement would be nearly impossible to miss.

"I'm picking Vincent up from the airport."

"He can't catch a cab?"

She frowns. "That wouldn't be right."

He can't help but scoff, incredulous, at her logic. "And _this_ is?"

"House. What do you want from me?"

"What do _you _want from _me_?" he counters. "Are you going to tell him?"_  
_

"I don't know."

"Why not?"

"Why is this bothering you so much? You're the one who insisted that you couldn't have a relationship."

_Because I don't want to lose you. _But these are words that he'll never be able to say out loud.

"House..." She shakes her head and he can see that she's changing her mind about the other things she wants to say. "I need to get ready for work. You can either stay or leave. Either way, be at the hospital by ten."

* * *

She notices the second his eyes catch sight of her empty ring finger and it would be easy - probably simpler - to just avoid Vincent's disappointed gaze, the slight tightening of his jaw that in him indicates sadness, not anger. They're in public, a crowded Newark airport, no less, and the best thing to do for now would be to ignore his very obvious reaction to her rejection (her _dismissal_) of his proposal and table it for a later conversation.

Cuddy opens her mouth to speak, but he beats her to the punch. "You're still not wearing the ring."

"It's at home," she admits and his jaw tightens even further. "It didn't feel...right. I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I didn't want you to think-" She sighs, looking up at him. Even in her heels, he's a good five inches taller than her. "Can we talk about this later?"

"Right. We're in public; wouldn't want to make a scene."

(She hates herself for seeing the similarities in him and House with that comment; she hates that there are any similarities between them at all, period.) She scoffs and folds her arms across her chest.

"Sorry," Vincent sighs, and runs a hand through his brown hair.

His apology makes Cuddy feel somewhat contrite, as she's more than certain that she's undeserving. "It's okay." She leans up on her tiptoes, resting her hands on her forearms for leverage, and kisses Vincent lightly on the lips. "We'll talk later. I promise. Okay?"

"Okay."

She forces a smile. "So, lunch?"

* * *

She's been avoiding him.

It is interesting, to say the least, since they have never really had a chance to role play, and more often than not he is the one going out of his way to avoid _her_.

House watches from behind the desk in the middle of the clinic as Cuddy closes the door to exam room three and waits. It's a little crowded and he knows they could definitely use the extra hands, but in an instance of acting out of character, Cuddy hasn't gone after him about fulfilling his public duty. He smirks and waits two minutes before briskly limping towards the door she just walked through, entering without knocking.

"You busy?"

He notices the minute she hears his voice because she goes ramrod straight, before turning back to the chart she was scribbling in before he interrupted. "What does it look like? I'm with a patient," Cuddy answers dismissively without turning around. (There's no way she's getting off that easy.)

"Got time for a consult?"

"A real one? Yes. An imaginary, hypothetical one you've concocted that only exists in some bizarre, alternate universe that you made up? No."

"_He_... is not a patient." House uses the tip of his cane to gesture toward the alarmed looking teenager sitting on the exam table.

"Really?" Cuddy scoffs, looking over her shoulder. "Because his chart says otherwise."

"I _meant_ that there's nothing physically wrong with him—"

"If he's not sick, then why would he wait for _over an hour_ in the clinic for someone to see him?"

"He didn't wait for _someone_. He waited for _you_," House observes pointedly.

At this Cuddy turns around, eyes narrowed, hands on her hips. "Why would he-"

_"Because_ he just wanted an excuse for you to feel him up _and_ for him to get a nice peek down your shirt. It's a neat trick, really. I might even try it the next time you wear that blouse."

The boy blushes as both Cuddy and House turn to face him. "...I had to drive my mom here with my little sister," he admits sheepishly. "She's in the ER with a broken arm. I didn't mind waiting."

"I'm sure you didn't," House mutters.

"How old are you, kid?"

"I'm over 18," he insists.

"Since when? Last week?"

He scowls. "Dude, I'm nineteen. I just look younger."

Cuddy presses her hand to her forehead, eyes closed briefly. (House notes with a small hint of satisfaction that he won't acknowledge that she still isn't wearing the crackerjack prize.) "Okay, you know what? You can go now."

"You sure you want to leave us without a chaperon?" House quips.

"So you two are, like, together?"

"Yes, but she refuses to tell anyone," House responds at the same time Cuddy insists, "No."

"So, you don't mind if I get her number or anything—"

"Trust me when I say, that is way too much car for you, kid."

Cuddy sighs, rests her hand on the kid's shoulder to help usher him out the door - which, naturally, he loves - and shakes her head. "Go find your mother. And don't ever do this again."

"He's cute. Think he'll give you a ride on his trike once he gets the training wheels off?"

"I'd ride with him long before I'd ever ride with you."

"You really going to try and unring that bell?"

Cuddy lets out a heavy, exasperated breath through her nose while House continues. "You're avoiding me, which is interesting because I'm usually the one that does the avoiding while you try to force me to do my clinic hours, but if we're trading places then I'm confused as to what I'm actually supposed to be doing all day. Pretending to be a doctor? Micromanagement? Reassigning parking spaces?"

"House, I'm not avoiding you. I'm working. Babysitting you is only one small, _tiny_, aspect of my job."

"Nice," he acquiesces, almost impressed. "Was that a penis joke?"

"What, too subtle?" Cuddy snarks.

"Cute. ...So your avoidance of me has nothing to do with the fact that Peter is back in town?"

"Did you run out of names that start with 'V'?"

"I'm saving the really insulting ones for when I actually meet him."

"Well that's never going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Seriously?"

"Does he know about last week?"

"Yes," she responds, all too quickly for that to be the truth or believable.

"You're lying."

"Fine. I haven't told him. We have a good thing going and I don't want to ruin it."

"Nice. You're lying again. You should really get that checked out."

"Why does it matter? We didn't sleep together."

"Last week, no. Three months ago, however..."

"You keep bringing that up. Like it's supposed to mean-"

"I'm sure Vinny would think it's an important fact, considering _you were still together_ when it happened."

Cuddy narrows her eyes, her voice low. "House-"

"End it."

She raises her chin challengingly. "Give me one good reason why I should."


	5. prominence

The Precipice

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." _Better_, he wants to say. House/Cuddy

Setting: Season 3

**A/N**: quick update by my standards...but for your own sake and, due to the unreliability of my muse, don't get _too_ used to it ;) enjoy!

* * *

_Say that I'm a fighter…_

_Too drunk to remember  
Too drunk to_

"We've got to stop meeting like this."

House arches an eyebrow once his gaze settles on her form, but he doesn't move from his spot on top of the wooden tabletop. It's the same table he's been sitting at every time she's come to this park and found him here. "You weren't at your apartment so I figured you'd be here." Cuddy sits next to him, their shoulders bumping together, the moment mirroring one from over a week ago.

"You _'figured'_? Or Wilson the Yenta told you?"

She shrugs, neither confirming nor denying his assumption, which she knows will annoy him. He frowns.

They are both silent for a moment, House twirling his cane, and Cuddy biting her bottom lip before charging forward with the main reason why she sought him out. Admittedly it makes things a little awkward, actively choosing not to acknowledge their conversation in the clinic which occurred a mere three days ago, but neither of them are ready to have _that_ conversation or deal with the consequences. (She knows she isn't, at least. She just doesn't know _why_ although it'll help the situation once she figures that out and can be sure of House's motives.)

"So, someone sent me flowers this morning." Cuddy turns to face him after delivering that non-sequitur, raising an eyebrow pointedly when he doesn't meet her gaze. "…And I have to wonder if that same someone also knew that Vincent is allergic to hyacinths."

House's face remains stoic, though, giving nothing away. "Sounds traumatic. Did you have to stab him with an epi pen?" He sounds smug. She should hit him.

"_No_. He spent half the morning basically high on Benadryl. How did you even find out that he was allergic to them?"

"…I know some low people in high places."

"He could have been hurt! I cannot believe that you—"

"He's dating a doctor, who I'm sure is anal retentive enough to have several fully equipped in-case-of-emergency kits stashed somewhere in her house. And clearly, since you're not with him at the moment, he's fine."

Cuddy rolls her eyes but nods curtly.

"Besides, you don't think it's a little telling that your favorite flower in all the world is deadly to your fiancé?"

She can't help but scoff at that, because she knows he is only baiting her to admit the obvious. "He's _not_ my fiancé. And I also like lilies, a flower that _won't_ cause him to break out in hives and his throat to possibly close. And since when are you such a big fan of coincidences, anyway?"

"Lilies are boring. And there's no such thing as coincidence."

"…I still can't believe you remembered my birthday."

"Don't be too flattered. I saw the date on your calendar when I broke into your office."

"I generally don't have my _own _birthday marked down on my calendar," she remarks softly, smirking.

"Did you read the card?" he deflects, ignoring that particular comment.

"What card?"

"I'm hurt. After all the effort I put—"

"Into poisoning my boyfriend?"

"Hey. You don't get the right to play hurt until you've actually _read _the card."

"What did it say?"

"How did you know they were from me?" He asks and ignores the question, as she knew he would.

"Intuition," she lies. She decides not to tell him she paid the delivery guy forty dollars to give her the name of the person who sent her the flowers, once he revealed that he'd already been paid twenty not to say anything.

From his pocket, he produces a Hostess cupcake, a lighter and a package of birthday candles. He unwraps the cupcake and places a single birthday candle in the middle.

"What are you, twelve?" she murmurs, though she takes the cupcake with a small smile. "What made you so sure I'd even come here to find you?"

"You couldn't _not _confront me. It's not in your nature." He lights the candle. "Make a wish, Cuddy."

She closes her eyes, wondering if House knows that she still believes in the childlike innocence and tradition of making fruitless wishes on a birthday in the hopes that they'll come true, and wishes for peace of mind, for clarity. (He must know she still holds the tradition because he doesn't ask what she wished for but, at the same time, he doesn't mock her for it. She doesn't question it, but she wants to.)

When she opens her eyes, he's looking at her. She smiles, taking a small chance and leaning forward, pressing her lips gently against his cheek. "Thank you, House."

He nods and their faces are still close enough that she can feel the scruff of his unshaven beard. She moves to put a bit more distance between them, but is stopped by his hand on her wrist.

"We're splitting that, right?"

* * *

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

Vincent rolls his eyes at her natural suspicion, smiling, and moves to stand directly behind her, placing his hands over hers to help her cover her eyes. "Just do it. The flowers incident forced me to kind of improvise at the last minute…"

He uncovers her eyes, revealing a dimly lit room, candles strategically placed about, a bottle of wine chilling on the table. She is able to recognize an old Coltrane record playing in the background.

"You can relax," Vincent says into her ear, "I promise you this isn't another proposal."

Cuddy is surprised to feel the tension magically release from her shoulders at his words. "You didn't have to do all this."

"You work too hard. You deserve to relax on your birthday at least."

"I - thank you." The guilt that has slowly been building within her since she returned from the park this afternoon only increases at the wide smile on Vincent's face, the dimple in his left cheek prominently displayed.

She smiles back, only because his smiles are infectious and she can't help it, but it doesn't feel as good as it should.

* * *

Vincent broaches the conversation she's been avoiding since his return from his trip, a couple nights later when they're both laying in bed but he knows she isn't sleeping. (He's far too receptive for his own good.)

"You don't want to get married, do you?"

She frowns, rolling over to face him. "Of course I do. Not…tomorrow or next week," she hedges, "but eventually, I do."

"Then why is the ring still sitting on your coffee table? Is it me?"

She tries, unsuccessfully, to laugh it off - unfortunately her chuckle comes out awkward and humorless. "When did we switch roles in this conversation? Are you me now?"

"Lisa."

She sighs, looking up to meet his troubled gaze. "We've only been together for six months and it's been going good. I don't want to ruin it."

"Why are you so sure that it's going to be ruined?"

"I don't know." It's a cop-out answer and she hates herself for it. She doesn't know why she's so uncertain about being honest with him. "…Experience?"

"How did I not know you were so pessimistic?" he asks and though his tone is light, she can tell that he is somewhat... disappointed. Vincent has always seemed to have this storybook romantic notion of love that Cuddy would hate to be the one to destroy that.

_There are a lot of things you don't know about me._

She closes her eyes for a moment, thinking briefly of the card (and flowers) she hid in a drawer that Vincent never touches and resolves that she'll tell him everything tomorrow. Just the _idea_ of the word - _everything_ - fills her with dread and overwrought anticipation.

She'll tell him everything tomorrow.


	6. escarpment

The Precipice

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." _Better_, he wants to say. House/Cuddy

Setting: Season 3

**A/N**: this chapter...i'll just say it was a lot of work. (more so than usual.) all reviews/thoughts/criticisms are welcome. please. enjoy!

* * *

_My face is laying on the pavement  
_

_Tasting something awful  
...I hate when that happens_

It's human nature, really, to want what you can't have.

She's been working - so hard - to convince herself that that's all this is about for House. He wants her simply because he can't have her. If she were to break up with Vincent tomorrow, suddenly House would negate every reason he ever gave as to why they should give being together a shot. It's a game - she knows that, though she's reluctant to admit that it's been a bit of a game for her, too - and he'll have no interest in her once the chips are down, she's revealed her hand and the game is over.

Cuddy sighs, quietly scoffing at the way she's thinking in jumbled metaphors as she leans in toward the bathroom mirror to fix her lipstick. The point, she reminds herself, is that he'll only walk away, like he always does when he's solved a puzzle and finds that answers are more trouble than they're worth.

So far, though, she hasn't been very successful of _fully_ convincing herself of that to be true. House is contradictory by nature and his actions lately have only added to Cuddy's conflict, not helped to absolve her of any of the guilt that seems to be associated with it.

She walks into her bedroom holding the back of her strapless, evening dress to keep it from falling off her body. Vincent is sitting on her bed already dressed in his suit. She smiles thinly. "Zip me up?"

"Sure."

Cuddy turns her back to Vincent, holding her hair to the side so it doesn't get in the way of her zipper. She holds her breath as she feels one hand resting on her shoulder, as the other works to pull up the zipper. "You look beautiful."

She smiles. "Thank you." In the moment his lips touch hers, she thinks of the promise she made to herself days ago - _to tell him everything - _and how she's managed to allow any and every other minor inconvenience to take precedence over that.

She's gotten worse at hiding her apprehension from him, and she hates that. "...Are you okay, Lisa?"

"I don't like roses," blurts out before she can stop herself. She closes her eyes in disbelief at her own display of awkwardness; that wasn't where she meant to start with, exactly but she's thinking of the bouquet of roses he sent, for an anniversary _she_ almost forgot, now sitting neglected on a windowsill in her office. She opens her eyes, one by one, biting her lip.

"What?" Vincent seems almost dumbfounded, although she doesn't blame him.

"I mean I _do_," she clarifies somewhat haltingly, "but they're not my favorite. I've always thought they were too...generic. I prefer lilies and hyacinths though if I were given the choice I would_ definitely _choose hyacinths."

Vincent shakes his head, confusion etched into his features. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I just feel like it's something that you should know."

"So is that what the deal was on your birthday?"

"I _am_ really sorry about that."

He doesn't acknowledge her concession (not this time). "Who sent the flowers?"

"Just a friend," she answers evasively.

Unluckily for her, he seems to notice something off about her tone. "An ex?"

"...Of sorts," she admits. "It was a long time ago, Vincent." _If you consider three weeks ago a long time_, her mind counters. "It's not a big deal," she adds, hastily, which she realizes after she's said the words, only makes the situation worse.

"No, of course not." He shakes his head, looks past her. Suddenly she wonders if he just knows what it is that she isn't telling him. "Why do I feel like there's something else you're holding back from me?"

"I'm not - I just -" she sighs, shaking her head, wishing that she didn't have to lie to him. But she isn't ready for a completely truthful conversation. Not yet.

Vincent takes her hands in his and the way he's looking at her now makes her feel so guilty that she wishes he wouldn't. "Lisa. Just _talk_ to me."

"I will. I just... can't yet."

"What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means that we _will_ talk. Eventually. Soon. Just... not tonight-"

"Not tonight. Right. Work comes first." He stands, and heads for the door without looking at her. "Are you ready to go?"

"Vincent, wait-"

"I'll just wait for you out in the car, then."

* * *

"You're putting on a tie."

House frowns in mock surprise, head tilted as he looks at the tie currently hanging around his neck. "Is _that_ what this is?"

Wilson's eyebrows furrow together in a mixture of confusion and suspicion. "I thought Cuddy said you didn't have to go to this thing tonight?" His hands fall to his hips as he eyes House's reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Why are you putting on a tie? And is your shirt actually... _ironed_? House, what the hell are you doing?"

"Last time I checked, department heads were actually required to attend hospital banquets."

"Last time _I_ checked that never actually stopped you from not attending one. What do you have planned?"

House shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Why wouldn't I want to go? There will be drinks, good food, good music, good company...well three out of four ain't bad. Actually, it's probably more like two and a half."

"House..."

"Think I should curl my hair? Or maybe straighten it?"

"House. What do you have planned?" Wilson asks again, slowly enunciating each word.

"Nothing," he insists, feigning innocence.

And at first, that is exactly what he does. But it's far easier to do nothing when hardly any guests have arrived. He's just told the bartender to keep the scotch coming when he catches sight of a flash of red fabric. Cuddy is standing by the door, with Victor/Vinny/Whatever/Who-the-Hell-Cares standing by her side. House tilts his head, noticing that despite the placement of his hand on Cuddy's lower back, he's still leaning roughly forty-five degrees away from her, while Cuddy, when the benefactor whose ass she's kissing isn't looking, lets the strained smile fall from her face. So they're fighting.

Interesting.

He watches as the two disengage and go in opposite directions; Cuddy doesn't even seem to notice his presence as she sits down several seats away from him towards the end of the bar and orders a drink. House plops with all the grace he can muster onto the seat next to her. "I'll have what she's having. What, exactly, are you having?"

"Club soda."

"...Actually, make that a scotch. On the rocks, minus the club soda." He turns toward her, tapping his cane rhythmically against the floor. He traces her profile with his eyes, as she won't look at him yet. "I noticed you brought your arm candy."

"We'd already decided that he was coming to this weeks ago - _not _that I need to justify anything to you," she adds hastily, at the sight of his smirk.

"Right. _Although_," he adds, ignoring her loud sigh and raised eyebrow, "I _also _couldn't help but notice the way Vincent made sure to keep a slight but noticeable distance between the two of you at all times." At this, he feels Cuddy stiffen beside him. "Trouble in manufactured paradise?"

She sighs, shaking her head. "How many ways can I say 'none of your business'?"

"Sounds like a yes to me."

"Look, House, I don't know why you came tonight but if you're here to try to convince me-"

"I'm not here for anything except free booze."

"Right."

"You don't need anyone to make decisions for you, Cuddy. It's an almost admirable trait."

She makes a little noise at the back of her throat at his usage of the word 'almost' though he can't tell, exactly, what that sound means. "That's never stopped you before," she mutters.

"But the strangest thing happens when comes to your…_'personal life'_," he says the phrase with disdain, continuing on as if she hadn't spoken. It's one she's used often in the past, in an effort to try to draw a line of distinction between her life (in relation to House) inside the hospital and out. He's tired of waiting for her to realize that there _is no_ distinction, not the way she wishes there was. "…what you want, you run away from. What you need, you don't have a clue."

Cuddy whips around to face him, her eyes narrowed into an icy glare that would bowl over a lesser man - her boy-toy, probably. She leans in towards him, close enough for him to catch an extraordinary glimpse of her cleavage and a whiff of the perfume she must have dabbed at the base of her throat. "Well, I _do_ know that the absolute last thing I need is for you to tell me what I need." She stands, picking up her tumbler of club soda, leaving him behind without a backwards glance.

House takes his scotch and makes his way toward Cuddy and Wilson's table even though - or maybe because - he's probably expected to sit with his team. Unfortunately, neither Wilson nor Cuddy seem surprised by his sudden arrival - Cuddy, in particular - which kind of takes the fun out of it.

"Evening, all. Having fun?" House grabs an empty chair from a nearby table, ignoring the mild protests of the guests sitting there and sitting in between Cuddy and her date. Cuddy sighs while Wilson looks constipated, eyes darting between them. "Oh right. We haven't officially met. Greg House, world renowned diagnostician." He sticks his hand out for Vincent to shake, his arm hovering over his plate.

Vincent eyes him for a moment, looking from his hand to his face and then back again, before seeming to make a decision and shaking House's hand, his grip strong. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Cuddy fidgeting but ignores it for now. "Vincent Canciellere, world renowned architect."

House turns down his mouth, pretending to frown in serious thought. "You're not Jewish? Not sure Mama Cuddy would approve."

"_'House'_ doesn't exactly sound kosher, either," Vincent points out and House smirks.

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "And I'm not fifteen; my mother doesn't need to 'approve' my boyfriends. What next, talk of a dowry?"

"I haven't exactly met her mother yet," Vincent starts, either not noticing or not caring about the glare Cuddy's sending him. "But it's not as though that's a requirement for our relationship to progress to the next level."

"Interesting."

"It really isn't."

Wilson clears his throat nervously. "Has anyone tried the salmon?"

"So Vaughn-"

"Vincent."

"Tell me, how have you managed to stay with an administrator for this long? She would have eviscerated the others long before now."

"Is that experience talking or wishful thinking?"

"I'm merely _observing _that some men would take Cuddy's aversion to them meeting her mother as a sign. A red flag, if you will."

"They're not exactly close."

"...You sure about that?"

Cuddy stops swirling the straw in her drink and pushes back from the table. "Okay you know what? I think I've had enough of this pissing contest."

Vincent is the first to blink out of their staring contest, turning towards Cuddy's back. "Lisa, wait-"

She waves, dismissively, over her shoulder without stopping. "Buck up, Vinny. I'm sure she'll be back for the Chief's speech." She isn't back by then and House, surreptitiously, in his own way, makes an attempt to find her.

He finds her, in all places, leaning against the balcony of his office. _Déjà vu_, he thinks.

"You know," he says loudly, closing the door behind him, "if you keep encroaching on my territory, I'm going to start thinking you actually _want_ to be around me."

She glances over her bare shoulder to face him. That action in combination with the smoldering look of anger in her slate grey eyes is enough to both warn him to tread carefully and to entice him to come closer. The contradiction is intriguing, he'll admit. "That little display down there? Completely unnecessary."

House shrugs, leaning against the railing next to her; he knows he isn't showing even the slightest hint of guilt but if she's looking for _that _then he's unsure as to why she's hanging out on _his_ balcony and not, say, Wilson's. "He's a tool."

Cuddy smirks. "Besides dating me what has he ever done to you?"

"He's..._nice_," he sneers.

She chuckles derisively. "Only _you_ would see that as a bad thing."

"If you would let yourself admit it, you would too."

"He's not that nice; he didn't take _your_ crap."

"I've yet to be convinced that wasn't an out of character moment of showboating. ...You still mad?"

"...I probably should be," she sighs. "But compared to your other stunts, this was pretty tame."

"You still 'not engaged'?"

"Why do you care if I am or not?"

"I don't." He's being honest, somewhat. He doesn't know if she's looking for validation or needing to know where their relationship stands, potentially, in his mind. Either way he doesn't trust himself not to fuck it up by saying something stupid. He licks his lips, turning towards her, admiring, for a moment, the shape and outline of her profile. "...If you're looking for me to say something moving and romantic, that isn't going to happen. You know that."

"I'm not..._looking _for anything," she insists quietly and unconvincingly.

"Yes, you are. And you're stalling. I don't know why yet, but I'll figure it out."

"You always do," she agrees softly. He's not sure if he's meant to hear that but, either way, he chooses not to respond.

"Vincent is the easier choice. The safer choice."

"Probably." She sighs, shaking her head. "I don't like doing this-"

"What?"

"Lying, being willfully deceitful. It makes me feel-"

He steps towards her, wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her into him. Her hands rest, palms flat, against his chest and she is standing with her legs in between his. "How does _this_ make you feel?"

"You're very good at deflecting, you know that?"

"Years of practice."

She looks at her hands resting palms flat against his chest, then up at him, her gaze stopping at his lips. "…If we don't go back inside, we're going to do something stupid," she murmurs.

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

"House-"

He doesn't want to hear any new reasons she may have come up with as to why this is a bad idea - beyond the infidelity aspect.

So he kisses her. Her response is immediate, filled with such a sense of urgency that at the back of his mind he knows is connected with her distant behavior tonight. As she grips the lapels of his suit jacket, House fears that she's made her decision and it's not going to be one he's going to like.

* * *

His bag sits unzipped on top of his desk as he tries to quickly decide which albums to leave and which to take home when he hears the familiar clicking of high heels against the tiled floors in the hallway. He looks up to see Cuddy trying to appear more poised and less nervous as she stands in the doorway of his office. If he were anyone else - and she hadn't literally had her tongue down his throat the other night - it might work.

"Hey."

He nods curtly in response, managing to fit in three albums before the zipper on the book-bag begins to struggle.

"I…heard about your patient. Do you know what it was?"

"Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. Didn't figure it out until it was too late." He shrugs. "But at least now the wife who was cheating on him and the son who hated him knows what killed him."

"And you."

"And me," he agrees. She nods, but still hesitates in the doorway of his office. He narrows his eyes. "But you didn't come here to talk about that."

"No," she admits, dropping the pretense. She bites down on her bottom lip, while wringing her hands, a tell of her nervousness. "I—"

"You're feeling guilty."

"_Yes._"

House rolls his eyes, jaw clenched in annoyance. "Then _make a decision._ Because right now all you're being is indecisive and uncertain and_ timid_ and it's _pissing me off_."

She steps into his office at that, her eyebrows furrowing together and lips turning down into a frown. "Why are you taking this so personally?"

"You're feeling guilty," he repeats taking a step towards her. "Which, in your case, is an even more useless emotion because it clouds your judgment."

"Well, shouldn't I be? Vincent is willing to spend the rest of his life with me when he doesn't even know-" She stops herself raising a hand to her head to rub her temples. "He's opened himself up to me completely and I've basically hidden myself from him."

"Relationships are trial and error. Some work out, some don't. You're just hearing the echo of your biological clock running out and you're letting _that_ drown out-" He stops, thinks, and can't believe he let himself become so engrossed in relationship drama that he could miss such a glaringly obvious sign. "You're pregnant."

She sighs, visibly deflating. "I…Maybe."

"You don't _know_?" he can't hide the disbelief that creeps into his tone.

"I haven't taken a test yet."

"Why not? Because it could be mine?"

"It's _not_-"

"It _could_ be. Actually, it very likely _is_." House picks up his bag and slings over his shoulder. He crosses the room, glaring as he leans into her space. "Take the damn test, Cuddy."

Her own gaze is just as steely. "When I'm ready, I will."

"Hope you're _'ready'_ before the kid starts crowning."


	7. ascent

The Precipice

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." _Better_, he wants to say. House/Cuddy

Setting: Season 3

**A/N**: apologies for the long wait... all reviews/ responses are appreciated (no matter how long it takes me to respond to them ;) enjoy.

* * *

_And she waves, _  
_ thinking that it's sexy_  
_ She must be plum crazy_

It's late.

The case of his latest patient was solved hours ago but in spite of that, House can't seem to bring himself to leave his office. Not yet, anyway. His desk is currently home to the contents of the wastebasket from her office and House admonishes himself for about the hundredth time for missing what's been staring him right in the face: symptoms; missing pieces to the puzzle; clues... He sets the tennis ball off to the side with sigh. Regardless of the euphemism, they all point to the same thing: Cuddy's possible - or, to be more accurate, _highly likely_ - pregnancy.

He notices but doesn't fully acknowledge Wilson's presence in the doorway of his office. "Haven't really seen you much lately."

"Had a patient to cure. …I get paid for that, you know."

Wilson nods, moving to stand in front of his desk, his hands on his hips. "Yes, I know. It's just that you hardly ever voluntarily spend your nights at the hospital simply because you have a patient - especially when your team could easily reach you at home if need be."

"What, did you miss me?" House snarks.

"_No_," Wilson retorts quickly. "I just-" He stops his sentence short, and gestures to the pile of garbage covering his desk's surface. "Distraction from a distraction?" he asks and House almost rolls his eyes at the knowing tone in Wilson's voice. "Since Lou the janitor hasn't been lurking around my office lately I'm going to assume that this is…Cuddy's?"

"Yep."

"And do I want to know the reason _why_ you're sifting through her garbage?"

"It's probably better if you don't."

"Does this have anything to do with the Western style showdown between you and Cuddy's boyfriend at the hospital fundraiser?"

"A 'showdown' implies that there's an equal distribution of power between opponents. Not so in this case."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Right; you're a stud, I get it," he mutters sarcastically. "Have you talked to her since then?"

"Not exactly," he admits, almost sheepishly.

"What does 'not exactly' mean?" Wilson demands, eyes narrowed, hands right back on his hips.

"It means we didn't do a lot of talking, when I found her trying to pull a Houdini over the balcony."

"What?"

"Can you blame her? That architect guy is an ass."

"He…seemed like a nice guy. Maybe a little defensive but then again it was _you _he was talking to so I don't exactly blame him."

"Anyone can _seem _nice before you actually get to know them." House picks up several paper cups that seemed to have contained tea. A sniff confirms that it's chamomile. "Would you be able to get through eighty hour work weeks on chamomile tea?"

Wilson pauses as he considers the question. "Is coffee not an option?"

"Let's say no."

"I - probably not." Wilson frowns. "How is this relevant to anything?"

House uses his cane to sweep the garbage, minus the paper cups, off his desk and into the trashcan. "It's evidence."

"Of what?"

"Well, what fun would it be if I told you?"

* * *

"You're late. Rough morning?"

His voice startles her as it cuts through the silence of her office, interrupting her whirlwind of thoughts and simultaneously stopping her in her steps, mid-stride, as she walks toward her desk. A tiny gasp ekes out from between her lips, as her hand automatically flies over her chest. Though she knows it's a bit over dramatic, she's almost convinced that her heart stops.

"And you're early—well early for _you_, anyway," Cuddy amends once she glances at the clock.

She should have expected this. The fact that she _didn't_ expect this means that she is a lot more distracted and bothered by his presence than she originally thought she would be. "Why do I even bother locking the door?" she mutters to herself, shaking her head as she sets her briefcase and cup of herbal tea on the edge of her desk. She moves to stand behind it, diving immediately into paperwork, a preemptive move on her part to avoid any discussion of what happened between them at the hospital fundraiser two nights ago. Futile, she knows, but damn if she doesn't try.

"You know, I was wondering the same thing. It would certainly save me the trouble of having to break in and ruining Chase's credit card in the process."

It takes a little effort, but Cuddy chooses to ignore that tidbit of information to move the conversation along. "What do you want, House?"

"…Brought you something."

She doesn't look up from the paperwork she's filling out until he tosses a paper bag, heavy with the weight of some unidentifiable object, on top of her desk. Cuddy eyes it warily, setting her pen aside and resting her chin in the palm of her hand. She doesn't move to open it. "What is this?"

"Breakfast burrito."

She unfurls the top of the bag and rolls her eyes when she sees _'Property of P.P.T.H.' _written in bold on top of a small, rectangular box. She sets the bag off to the side and leans back in her chair, staring at him. "You stole this from the clinic," she observes flatly.

"It's fine; you can just reimburse me." Off her glare he adds, somewhat uncertainly, "Fine. Take the two dollars out of my paycheck, then."

"It actually costs three seventy-five, House, and I really don't have time for—"

"You don't have three minutes?"

"House, why are you pushing this? I would think that you of all people wouldn't exactly be _eager_ to know—"

"And I would think _you_ of all people would have booked an appointment with an OB the second you realized Aunt Flo had missed not one, but _two_ visits." He looks at her pointedly, and her cheeks flush a distinct shade of scarlet.

"How do you—" She shakes her head. "Never mind, I don't even want to know."

"Evidently," he retorts. She gives him a look that is clearly agitated, waiting for him to expand his answer. "I've been thinking about your sudden need to _not_ know. And I'm admittedly curious as to why. You're a control freak and you actively choosing _not_ to be in control goes against your nature. I'm intrigued."

"Of course," she sighs. "It's always about the puzzle."

"Also," he continues, "I know it's been awhile since you've had a lesson in the meaning of all of the bases but getting to third doesn't count as scoring which means if you _are_ pregnant—"

"Keep your voice down—" she hisses. She looks quickly over his shoulder, as if she's worried someone could hear him through the solid walls and closed doors of her office.

"Then you're roughly about halfway through the first trimester. You're also cranky," he observes. _How astute_, Cuddy thinks snidely. "Though it's a bit early for mood swings, don't you think?"

"_Not_ a mood swing," she snaps. "This is me being annoyed. There's this giant, _obnoxious_ gnat that just won't go away—"

"So, we're trying out pet names today? My vote's for 'pookie'."

"House."

He suddenly leans in towards her deliberately close, taking not of the way she frowns almost instantaneously. "What is that smell?"

"It's called cologne. I know you're probably used to the foul odor of Victor's B.O.—"

She rolls her eyes, ignoring the dig. "What, did you bathe in it?"

"Just a few dabs."

"House, you don't wear cologne," Cuddy points out, suspicious. "Why would you—"

"You have a hyperactive sense of smell. Needed to actually _activate_ it to help prove my point."

"Don't push this. I just - I can't right now."

He doesn't respond to her statement, nor to her admittance of avoidance. He does, however, leave the bag and the pilfered test on her desk, turning around and walking out of her office without a word.

* * *

She and Vincent haven't stopped arguing in the days following the hospital fundraiser. He's asking questions at every turn - some of which she doesn't have the answers to, and others Cuddy simply doesn't _want _to give - wanting to know everything there is to know regarding her relationship with House. She tells him the basics, leaving out the obvious connection they presently share: they met in college when she was an undergrad and he was a med student, and slept together _once; _they lost touch, she hired him as head of diagnostics years later on the heels of his infarction, because he was good.

"In bed?" Vincents snarks.

"Stop," she demands, shooting him a glare.

"Sorry. I just find it kind of funny that _now_ you're telling me you have a history with this guy - which I wouldn't have a problem with if he wasn't practically marking his territory the other night like a German Shepard. He might as well have peed in a circle around you, for God's sake."

"Need I remind you that _you_ weren't exactly Mr. Subtlety, either."

She's making a pot of coffee and adamantly trying to ignore the nausea roiling in her stomach at the scent of the beverage - hence, the reason why she's forgone these past few weeks - and stubbornly hoping that this isn't another warning sign (symptom) pointing towards the most obvious answer. "I just—"

Cuddy takes a sip of coffee and doesn't even manage to swallow it down before she's rushing towards the bathroom her hand clasped over her mouth.

* * *

He hears her before he sees her, and mentally adds another symptom to the list. He leans against the doorway of her bathroom. It's almost mildly impressive the way she manages to hold her hair back with one hand and hold onto to the edge of the porcelain with the other. It takes her a few minutes to pull her face out of the toilet and as she leans against the bathtub, resting the her head against its edge, she doesn't seem all that surprised to see him here. "Puking. In the morning. That's got to be indicative of _something_, right?"

She scowls. "Shut up," she murmurs weakly. "What are you doing here?"

"My usually perfunctory boss didn't come in to work this morning—"

"It's Saturday."

"According to the nurses _you_ at least come in for a couple of hours. Word of your absence sparked my interest."

"Since when do you voluntarily talk to the nurses?"

"There is at least one who doesn't know of my reputation. Can't remember her name though. She's blonde, perky-"

"Of course she is," Cuddy mutters before coming to a realization. "How did you get in here?"

"You should really move your spare key to a new spot. Flower pot's too obvious. _Although_, interestingly enough, the front door was already unlocked."

She doesn't respond to that. Yes, she knew he would try to show up, but to say that she actually _wants _him here? That would be opening herself up to all kinds of questions that she isn't exactly ready for. House reaches above her head to open a one of her cabinets and grabs a washcloth. She watches in silence; partly in confusion as to what, exactly, he's doing, partly in amazement at his audacity. Although, honestly, she shouldn't be surprised.

He hands her a damp washcloth and she is too surprised to even say thank you. He gives her a knowing look. "Where's the boy-toy? Shouldn't _he _be cleaning up your puke?"

Cuddy looks away from him before reluctantly admitting, "I… told him I must have caught the flu from working in the clinic and I didn't want him to get sick, so I told him to go home."

He smirks. "And he believed you?"

"I _could _be sick," she mumbles feebly.

"Right. With a parasite that will persist for roughly the next seven months."

She pulls herself to her feet and grabs a cup she keeps near the edge of the sink to fill it with water. "You don't know-"

"Cuddy." He is quickly losing his patience with her staunch persistence to stay in a permanent state of denial and his tone conveys it clearly. She takes a sip of water while House leans against the counter for balance, his jaw clenched and ticking in annoyance as he watches her. The silence that falls between them is tense and uncomfortable. "What is that you're so afraid of?"

"I'm not _afraid_, House," she scoffs.

"Look at it this way, the sooner you find out the sooner you can decide what to do about the problem."

"Is _that _what you think I want?" She turns around to face him abruptly, eyebrows furrowed.

"What the hell else am I supposed to think?"

"_That's_… not what I want. And believe it or not, it's not about _you._ Or Vincent, even." She sucks in a breath, looking down at her hands. "I know it isn't logical…but I just feel like if I don't _know for sure _then I can't get… attached to anything."

"So you put off facing the inevitable in the hopes that you just won't have to deal with it even thought the act of putting it off has no effect whatsoever on the outcome? You're right. That isn't logical." She sighs, he continues. "But it's …understandable. Somewhat."

"Give me a minute." She closes the bathroom door, and out in the hallway House begins to consider her question, a mild panic setting in. What _is_ he doing? He needs to know, that much is sure, and though he has a hunch that is ninety-nine percent accurate, ninety-nine percent is not one-hundred. He looks toward Cuddy's front door for a quick moment before the bathroom door opens.

House pushes it open the rest of the way with his cane. Cuddy's standing in front of the sink, the test in her hands.

"Ready?"

"Not yet." Cuddy bites her lip, shaking her head, face scrunched in confusion. "Why are you doing this? Being here and putting up with-"

"Your brand of crazy?"

"I wasn't going to say _that_, exactly… but yeah, I guess."

"Do you really need me to answer that, Cuddy?"

"I… It should be ready by now."

Cuddy turns the test over and House is sure, before she even says a word, of what it says by the expression on her face. "Well?" he demands, his need to know overriding his momentary lapse into the realms of sensitivity. House is certain he already knows the answer, but he needs confirmation. He needs an answer.

She tugs nervously on her bottom lip with her teeth. "…positive."


	8. gradient

The Precipice

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." _Better_, he wants to say. House/Cuddy

Setting: Season 3

**A/N**: next chapter is already partially (halfway?) written so good news. bad news (maybe, depending on who you are) i'm feeling like this story may be winding down. it more than likely won't have many more than 10-15 chapters. anyway; read, enjoy, and review.

* * *

_She must be plum crazy  
I kinda think I like her  
I kinda think I do_

Cuddy turns the test over in her hands and House is sure, before she even says a word or makes a noise, of what it says by the expression on her face.

"Well?" he demands, his need to know overriding his momentary lapse into the realms of sensitivity. House is certain when his mind recounts and reviews all the evidence and clues that he already knows the results, but he needs _definitive proof_, a confirmation. He needs an answer.

He watches as she tugs nervously on her bottom lip with her teeth. He waits, feeling uncharacteristically unsettled, that moment in between him asking the question and her giving the answer seeming to stretch infinitely.

"It's…positive."

* * *

She doesn't know how long she stands there, leaning against the sink and holding the test in her hands, watching, waiting to make sure the pink plus sign she sees isn't a trick of the light or that if she blinks, it will simply fade away.

It doesn't.

She opens her mouth to say something - _what_ she doesn't know, but something needs to be said - but when she looks up, House is no longer standing in the doorway. Cuddy sets the test down on the counter beside the sink, breathing deeply, telling herself not to be surprised - but she is - that should've expected this and she shouldn't be disappointed - but she's filled with it. She sighs, breath escaping her lips shakily and quickly washes her hands before leaving the bathroom and stepping out into the hallway.

Cuddy stops just at the entrance to her kitchen, pausing at the sight of House leaning against the counter top next to the stove.

"I - you're still here," she murmurs. She tries, to the best of her ability, to hide the surprise and shock in her voice but she's certain that he notices anyway. She leans over his shoulder, her eyebrows furrowed as she finds the source of the scent starting to permeate through her kitchen. "You're making pancakes. And…tea?" she adds.

She watches him from her stance near the oak wood table as he moves about her kitchen, his familiarity with her space reminding her of those sporadic late night visits. "You're making tea," she can't help but repeat.

"Yep."

"You _hate_ tea," she murmurs, frowning slightly, noting the observation out loud.

"Pancakes are for me. Tea's for you. You're a terrible hostess, by the way. Isn't the number one rule of _Miss Manners' Guide_ to offer your guest a meal - especially after they've held your hair back while you vomited?"

"I'm surprised you're even aware of the existence of the _Miss Manners' Guide_, House. Also, I didn't invite you over," she points out.

"True," he admits, nodding. She stands beside him as he flips pancakes onto a plate sitting on the counter and the tea kettle whistles on the stove behind them.

He hands her the cup of tea once it's ready, which she accepts carefully. "I…Thanks." She wraps her hand around the mug, holding it close enough to attempt to blow it cool enough to take a sip. She feels his eyes on her, watching, but she doesn't look up. At least, not until he speaks.

"So this 'stunned into silence' bit cannot be just because the test came out positive," House notes abruptly. "As much as you've doubted it, you had to know it was a possibility. So I can only assume that it's either a) because I'm in the lead and the most likely candidate for paternity-"

She scowls. "You can't possibly know that."

"Or _b)_," he continues, pointedly ignoring her, "because you can't believe that I'm actually _capable_ of doing-"

Cuddy sighs in exasperation, rolling her eyes. "It's not that I don't think you're _capable_, I'm just not naive enough to believe that you wouldn't do something without having an ulterior motive."

"You? Naive?" he scoffs, mocking her slightly. "So what is my motive, Cuddy? What am I getting out of this?"

"I - _Something_. There's always something."

"Right because _this_ is exactly what I want."

"Isn't it?" He moves so that he's standing directly in front of her, his arms placed on either side of her, keeping her in place.

"No."

"…House," she whispers only because she can't think of anything else to say - not with him looking at her the way that he is, the tips of his thumbs brushing against her thighs, wisps of air from his exhale brushing across her lips seconds before he's kissing her hard, wholly and completely; she finds herself giving in without hesitation, her mouth opening underneath his once she feels his tongue pressing against the seam of her lips. He slides his hands through the messy curls of her hair and she pulls him closer by wrapping her legs low around his hips.

But then, just as suddenly as it started, it's over and he's pulling away from her and she's left standing in the middle of her kitchen, cold. It isn't until the front door slams shut, pulling her out of her reverie that her mind registers the smell of burnt pancakes filling the room.

* * *

The thin wax paper covering the exam table crinkles quietly beneath her as she shifts, somewhat nervously. The young nurse standing at her elbow, studiously adjusting the BP cuff around her bicep, smiles in a way that's supposed to be comforting. At least, Cuddy can only assume so. "Are you nervous?"

"Not at all," Cuddy lies smoothly. She smiles falsely, in spite of the fact that she knows her slightly elevated heart rate will betray her. Of _course_ she's nervous. She can't think of a single reason not to be.

Cuddy startles slightly when the exam room door opens again, not having realized the nurse even left at all. Her doctor, Elizabeth Wright, the head of obstetrics at Princeton General enters the room a calm smile on her lips and a self-assured air surrounding her. "Dr. Wright. Good to see you."

"Lisa. Your labs came back-"

"And?" Inwardly, she cringes at her inability to just be patient. But still, she leans forward, waiting.

"And you were right." Here, Wright's smile widens. "Blood work confirms that you're definitely pregnant." Congratulations."

"And you're sure?" She feels compelled to ask, just to be certain, just to be _sure. _She can't take any chances with getting her hopes up.

"Absolutely. I know that you're concerned because of your history..."

"You probably think that I'm being paranoid-"

Wright rests her hand on top of hers. "Of course not. I was just going to suggest we do an ultrasound. No harm in that."

"Thank you."

"This will be a little cold," Wright warns gently. Cuddy nods holding her breath with the paper gown pushed up so that it's resting just below her breasts. She gasps once the cool gel makes contact with her skin and waits for the inevitable.

And then she hears it.

"…There it is."

She opens her eyes as the sound of a strong steady heartbeat fills the room, echoing off the walls and the tiled floors, causing her own heart to swell and her eyes to fill instantly with tears. The image on the screen in front of her is barely the size of a small fruit, its small limbs and minute-sized head hard to discern, but it's real. It's _there_. "Everything seems to be perfectly fine and healthy," Wright says quietly.

Cuddy exhales a shaky sigh of relief, finally feeling as though she's reached the moment where she can breathe easy and just…allow herself to accept this and embrace it. She never really thought that she'd get _here_, never thought that she'd get to have this moment.

And though she came to this appointment alone, Cuddy knows, now that she's looking at the life growing inside of her, that there is only one person she wishes she had sitting next to her - in spite of everything and everyone else. The realization of who that is isn't surprising, really, but her walls and defenses are down as she holds onto a printout copy of the sonogram that she is hit with an almost stunning and dizzying clarity, nearly amplifying the tears in her eyes as she looks at the empty space next to her, once his name comes to mind:

_House._


End file.
